Long Labor of love Poems
Long Labor of love Poems. Below are the most popular long Labor of love by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Labor of love poems by poem length and keyword.
One by One…
Concrete words cement my fears, one by one commit to line
Carved in stone all through the years
A labor of love and time
A lesson to learn that nothing good will come
To those who cannot wait
A patient man whose concrete words
Serve to document his fate
And one by one they’re commit to line
One by one with love, through time…
I can’t help but keep coming back to that which brought me here
A mere mortal man who finally learned how to keep his conscience clear
A lesson learned that nothing good will come to those who cannot wait
A blessed man is he whose love can survive in all this hate
And through darkened days still hold the line…
Balanced on the straight and narrow
Concrete words cement my fears, one by one commit to line
Carved in stone all through the years
So some good would come in time…
One by one, a labor of love and time
One word, one day, each in its own time…
Concrete words cement my fears, one by one commit to line
Realizing just how clear it is, this is only part of the design…
Better times will soon arrive…believe
A humid day,
mosquito clouds swarm along
a red dirt road to the farm.
There are grimy rows of pig pens,
hazed dark by humming hordes
of black fly.
Bob (an old friend), chuckles.
“Man, you picked the wrong time of year
to come visit.”
The hogs grunt and squeal.
He waves,
“be with you soon.”
It’s slop-time - the air is turgid
with the many notes of a stale miasma,
everywhere there is the splatter
of slime and muck.
He carries smeared green buckets;
a deleterious, partly consumed gunk
that reeks of that semi-solid swill
hogs grow fat upon.
On the low walls
there are slick stains, layers of grime;
a smeared feculence
corrugated into noxious layers.
Even behind the stalls
there are a heaps
of sludge and slurry.
Bob flushes surfaces down
with his long hosepipe.
He bends to his tasks whistling happily
while I explain to my new wife
that he used to work for the C.I.A.
I can see she’s surprised,
maybe impressed.
Long pause…
watching Bob wade knee deep
into his labor of love.
“Yea”, I sighed,
“he got real tired of all that."
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an edit
Our cabin in North Carolina was built by Deborah’s mom and dad in 1983…
It rests on the side of a mountain…nestled in among the trees.
When Deborah’s dad was alive he had a garden terraced off at the bottom of the yard.
He built a pathway to this garden…to make the walk down there…not quite as hard.
This was no easy task…you have to understand…
as he molded each square out of cement…and placed them in the ground by hand.
When our family would visit in the summer time…
our children would run up and down his steps with smiles and wide eyes..
to pick vegetables and blackberries from his garden…play in the woods
or in the evening to chase fireflies….
Our grandchildren used his steps to take them to a fort we made when they were small
Our dog Whitman used his steps chasing countless tennis balls.
When Grandpa was alive he kept his steps in perfect condition…
clean with no weeds around them,…
because he knew when we would visit…our children would be running up and down them.
But Grandpa is no longer with us and our children and grandchildren have grown…
which means Grandpa’s path…once used to play on and explore…
those 41 steps that led to countless adventures…aren’t used as often anymore.
As children grow their interests change and their desires to play in the yard wane…
now on Grandpa’s path…up and down those steps…only memories remain…
But that doesn’t stop me every summer…once we arrive…
from taking a hoe a sickle and a little brush too..
and cleaning off each step on the path…just like Grandpa used to do.
It is a labor of love…making sure Grandpa’s path is as perfect as it used to be…
because on the one hand I know somewhere…Grandpa’s smiling down on me…
But I also have an ulterior motive…each year I’m on my own crusade
to make that path exactly the way it was when our children’s memories were made.
So if you happen to visit us in the summer at the cabin…
and you see an old main in the yard with a hoe, a sickle and a little brush too
Don’t be alarmed…he’s just getting an old path ready for summer…
just like Grandpa use to do.
FROM ME TO YOU: APROPOS OF WISDOM, GUIDANCE, AND LEARNING
(A Teacher’s Reflections For And In A Labor Of Love)
Remember, “To not know is bad.”
“To not wish to know is worse:-”
Reading involves more than being able to pronounce words.
You must also know the meaning of each word encountered:-
It’s not about rushing to be first to complete the test.
It’s about taking your time to get the majority of right answers.
Hey, homework is equivalent to body and mind practice
in sports:-
Your mind is the home where you energize to become great
in academic challenges:-
Just because AI “solves” a problem for you, doesn’t mean
it’s solution is correct:-
Remember, AI only does what it is given by NI to do what you
input it to do:-
Remember, praying is not merely quick regurgitating
of remembered words;
Rather, praying is sacredly speaking with God, Saints,
and The Holy Spirit:-
Stop regurgitating, “I’m sorry”! Be in awareness!
“Don't be sorry; be aware.”
Hey, for me, teaching is a labor of love:-
Make learning likewise, for you:-
Be in onderful oneness onement:-
Peace and Love:-
I sat beside the pond, dark at night.
Watching moonlit ripples gather their light.
Each thought I dropped in silence there,
Sent ripples echoing to who knows where.
The fern fronds bent low in patient grace,
Like green hands, touching the pond's face;
They swayed as though they all understood
The thoughts I left under leaf and wood.
To ponder is to wander on real slow,
In deep hidden valleys, lit dimly aglow;
Not seeking answers adroit, sharp and fast,
But truths beyond what surface shadows cast.
The pond reflects the stars above,
Showing its devotion to the labor of love.
It welcomes the sky with two open hands,
Then lets meaning befall to where hope lands.
The mind, like water, must grow still,
Before any reflected shadows can distill;
What the restless spirit wants to shed
From dusty drawers of regrets and dread.
Beneath the reeds, dark shadows sleep,
Where nasty things crawl, writhe and creep;
Every one's a mystery, all clammy and cold,
Awaiting their chance, when beliefs grow old.
So let the fronds and ponds confer,
Let thoughts gel, settle, with a gentle stir;
For wisdom rarely shouts out its fame—
It glows like embers beneath the flame.
I rise before the break of dawn,
With heart heavy; thoughts forlorn;
Yet knowing the bond to which I'm fond
That to ponder, is to become the pond.
Wandering out of place long since this morn.
Wishing on the moon to just be reborn.
A beginning anew healing past scorn.
Then came the dawning day ... pushing the clouds away,
And the stars at their play ... to meet the sunny ray.
About midday with the heavens above
Was so much more than I ever dreamed of.
Thanks to the shadows who gave me a shove.
Reunites a brother ... not unlike the other.
I, born to another ... she, my midnight mother.
Am I welcome, like the rose with a thorn,
To be beaming my smile once gone astray?
Outshining darkness, a labor of love
Risen from deep down no need to smother.
We searched for an island home
where mankind does not roam,
life is not measured by a phone
and greedy lust is not sewn.
We found beach lapping an ideal shore
with fertile soil in a wooded core.
yes, a heavenly island that bore
all we dreamed, plus even more.
Now we abide in our treehouse,
beautifully crafted by my spouse.
Friendly, farm animals thrive throughout.
Our gardens thrive, even Brussel Sprouts.
With joy we tend all by hand.
It’s our labor of love for this land
where in peace, simple and grand,
our independence took true stand.
Here, we play much of the time,
swinging and thrilling on vines,
sharing long walks and climbs,
swimming in the sea so prime.
Stunning beauty in each day sight
enhances all under a sun just right.
The night galaxy gives perfect light,
for our underneath, we live perfect life.
share your day with me in the dark
it is here where the mind relaxes happily
you put your presentation in the toy box of your mind
i then enjoy a side of You that only your biggest fan gets to embrace
no light shields the vulnerable nature of your being
no public applauds the flawless performance with your makeup
it is just you, me, and sweet blindness in the gentle air of stillness
you are free to trust with your dilemmas and your edited anecdotes of life
you are free to fluff the pillow of uninterrupted vibrations
you are free to lose yourself in the serene gentleness of a Labor of Love earned through cuts and scars
you are free to even bring out your inner child and put your grown and adultness in park
the ink that you put in me, your diary makes me love you even more, so share your day with me in the dark....
SHARING GOD’S SHARED POURED WORDS
For me,
Penning poetic words,
Is a desired labor of love;
Sharing life’s awareness
Of the guided wisdom
Poured out of God’s cistern
To wave and froth inspiration;
And the beauty
Of it all
Is that God’s cistern
Is eternally overflowed
With such frothing words;
Energizing
Thirsty searching souls
And strengthening
Our tested spirits
With His peace
Love and healing grace;
And I pray
My poetic well
Will continue
To be flooded
With buckets
Of hydrating words;
And when God
Retires me
I pray
My keloid
Clanging echoes
Will continue
To quench
Inspirational thirst:-
For me,
Penning poetic words,
Is a desired labor of love;
Sharing life’s awareness
Of the guided wisdom
Poured out of God’s cistern
To wave and froth inspiration;
And the beauty
Of it all
Is that God’s cistern
Is eternally overflowed
With such frothing words;
Energizing
Thirsty searching souls
And strengthening
Our tested spirits
With His peace
Love and healing grace;
And I pray
My poetic well
Will continue
To be flooded
With buckets
Of hydrating words;
And when God
Retires me
I pray
My keloid
Clanging echoes
Will continue
To quench
Inspirational thirst:-